"The Lean Man is right," he muttered, as he went out. "'Tis time that this Wayne of Marsh was out of harm's way."
His hand was already on the door-latch when old Nicholas himself, still seated by the hearth, detained him, though a while since he had bidden him make all speed to Marshcotes.
"I've a word for thy ear, lad," said the Lean Man. "Come sit beside me and tell me whether 'tis well planned or no."
For a half hour they sat there, the young rogue and the old, their lean faces and red heads pressed close together. And now the Lean Man let a chuckle escape, and again Red Ratcliffe would fetch a crack of laughter.
"By the Mass, sir, your wits keep sharp!" cried the younger, raising his voice on the sudden. "The plan goes bonnily as wedding bells. First, to go hunting——"
"Hush, fool, there's Janet in the room behind," snapped the Lean Man; "and she has less liking for sword-music than her bravery warrants."
"Janet is out of hearing. I saw her go down the garden-path just now."
"Well, 'tis time thou wast off and about this business. Bring back Dick's body, and forget not to ply old Witherlee with questions when thou'rt seeing him about the grave. He's a poor fool, is Sexton Witherlee, and he'll tell thee all we want to know as soft as butter."
Janet, soon as her cousin was gone, slipped out into the garden—budding with spring leafage, yet cold for all that with memory of the storm just over-past—and sought the lane that led up to the pasture-fields. This wooing of Red Ratcliffe's was growing irksome to her, backed as it was by the Lean Man's favour; nor had she guessed till now that any shared the secret of her love for Shameless Wayne. Yet for all her own troubles, she found leisure to think kindly of the mad woman, who had come in such piteous plight to Wildwater and had been turned away by so rude a storm of jests and harshness. Where was Mistress Wayne now, she wondered?
Shading her eyes against the sunlight, which was fitful, chill and dazzling, she looked for the frail woman. At first she could see nothing save the bare green of scanty herbage, the swart lines of wall, the dark, straight hollows running up the fields to mark where the plough had once on a time furrowed the hard face of the land. Then she made out a little figure, moving up toward where the topmost field curved nakedly across the steel-blue sky.